Screwed Up and Brilliant
by a Fox and a Fawn
Summary: He had tried to hate her, to hate those like her, to hate everyone that he had been taught to hate. He said the right words, sneered with all of his might, and played the villain. But it had never been him. He had known it was wrong. And now he was going to try his damnedest to make it right. He only worried that it was too late.
1. Safe & Sound

Her screams were violent and shrill, piercing the air that surrounded them. There was no escaping—her from the clutches of his deranged aunt, or he from the sounds that were very nearly torturing him. Something was caught in his throat. Words? A curse? Tears? For a second he directed his vision to the floor and reasoned it was all three, before his stomach emptied itself beside his obnoxiously expensive shoes. Maybe that had been the lump he had felt. But, no, it was still there. His father's hand came down, hard, onto the back of his head. A reprimand for showing weakness at such a time as this. Draco tried to keep silent the sob that wrenched itself from his throat but his body still jerked with its power.

This should have been his fantasy. It was what he had been raised to believe; it had been beaten into him since birth. And he had tried to hate her, to hate those like her, to hate everyone that he had been taught to hate. He said the right words, sneered with all of his might, and played the villain. For a while it had even felt good. His father was proud of him and, thus, he was proud of himself. But that had ended the summer before his fourth year at Hogwarts, when the Death Eaters had started a riot at the Quidditch World Cup. The reality of the situation—the screams, the agonizing pain on the faces as he passed by, the chaos—had sunk in and Draco realized that this was not the world he wanted to be in.

Truth be told, he enjoyed the way the world was when he was younger. When words were usually the most you had to fear and war was in the past. It was that day he decided his prejudices were truly his father's, but fear for his mother's life (as well as his own, but that rarely registered in his mind had led him to keep up a front. He had still tried to help the Golden Trio, warning them to get Hermione to safety, albeit in a crude manner. He had never quite figured out what caused him to do that. Was it his newfound outlook, that spark of warmth in his heart that felt comfortable and right? Or had that spark come from something else?

So many questions had plagued his mind since that night, and he had yet to find the answers to most of them. Not that he had been given the chance to search, and he certainly didn't have time to think about his questions right now, though they still niggled at the back of his mind. Right now his mind was running and sweat was pouring and his veins were buzzing with indecision. This was wrong—no, more than wrong; this was evil.

Draco could feel the bile working its way back up his throat and the tears that were building behind his eyes. He wanted to turn away from the sight before him but found it impossible. He had to keep watch over her, make sure things didn't get carried away. But wasn't this carried away? His heart was beating, unabashedly and strong, in his chest. His head seemed to be filled with those creatures that Lovegood was always on about—wrackspurts or something of the like. Another wave of pain rushed over him. It was a familiar feeling, guilt.

There was something else there this time, though. Something bubbling and rising to the surface, and Draco wasn't even sure what it was until he felt himself rise out of his seat and lift his wand arm. The sound of his footsteps mingled with Hermione's soft whimpers. He didn't know if she had any sense left to her. Why had he waited so long?

"Petrificus totalus!" he yelled, wand pointed at Bellatrix. It was a simple spell, inferior to him really, but it caught his aunt off guard. He heard the subtle squeak of a shoe behind him. "Stupefy!"

His father flew back into a wall and fell to the floor, unconscious. Narcissa's hand jumped to her mouth but she made no moves toward either he husband or her son.

He landed with a thud on his knees beside the body of Hermione Granger. Her eyes were empty orbs staring beyond him—beyond anything. He leaned over her, putting a hand on each side of her face and watching his tears dance with hers down her face and onto the floor.

"Granger…," he whimpered, holding her limp body to his chest.

It wasn't just her he cried for, though he cried for her for many reasons. He cried for war and those lost to it, he cried for innocence lost, he cried for his mother and even, a little bit, his father. He cried from guilt and pain and regret. His body shook with sobs, Granger's body shaking with him. Out of the corner of his eye he spied the rigid body of his aunt, still but humming with power aching to be released. He put Hermione down to the floor gingerly before jumping up and running toward Bellatrix.

"You!" he spat. "Why? …Why?"

He lowered himself to her, teeth clenched, and whispered, "I could do this right now, you know. I could kill you," he paused. "But if my family has taught me anything, it's that a quick death is far too generous for the likes of you."

With that, he rose and gave his aunt a swift kick to the ribs.

"Mother," he said, rushing over and placing his forehead against hers, "are you okay?"

She nodded, her eyes still surveying what lie around her.

"You know what you have to do," he spoke, his voice wild but soft. "You have to let the others go and then you have to run. Go to your sister. You'll be safe with her. I love you, mother."

Finally Narcissa's eyes found her son's. She lifted her palm to his face, stroking it lightly.

"Son, you are strong. I like to think you get that from me. We will be okay, the both of us. And I love you," she answered, with particular emphasis on the last three words. Her lips rested on his forehead before she broke their connection. "Now take her and go to the summer cottage. You will have time there, but not much. Not more than a few days. But she must rest, Draco."

The young Malfoy nodded. He had a task and orders were something he understood—nothing else made sense at the moment aside from his mother's words. All he knew was that Hermione Granger needed to be safe. She was the brains, the cleverness, the plans. She was the only hope of winning this war. Without her, the Golden Trio was useless. But, right now, her being with the other two members of their esteemed group would only cause her to deteriorate faster. His mother was right. She needed to rest.

* * *

Hermione was still limp on the floor, her eyes still looking beyond her surroundings. Her senses were coming back to her slowly, though she made no effort to move or speak. There was a tightness in her chest that was filled with every emotion she didn't want to feel. Tears were building up—she could feel them in her throat and behind her eyes, but she refused to let them fall. She let her eyes scan the room, knowing that immediate danger could be a fingertip away. She found nothing besides the younger Malfoy and his mother huddled tightly together in the corner of the room upon first glance, but soon caught a glimpse of Lucius Malfoy's body lifeless only a few feet away from his family. Her heart began to beat rapidly and her mind was flooded with so many new thoughts that a headache was quickly beginning to form. What was happening? Where was Bellatrix and what had happened to the Malfoy patriarch? Where were her friends? Had they been kept alive for the Dark Lord or killed by an overeager Death Eater? Or, she thought hopefully, had they somehow made their escape?

Footfall was making its way towards her and the groan escaped her lips before she'd had the thought to stifle it. Squeezing her eyes shut, she shook her head violently from side to side, expecting more torture and unbearable pain.

The voice she heard was soft and kind and so unlike what she had been anticipating. "Granger, listen to me. You're going to be okay. I won't hurt you."

It was then that the dam inside of her failed and the tears came, savage and unrestrained. There was no room in her head for confusion, and yet it had burrowed into her brain and refused to check out. It grew as she felt slender, cold fingers intertwine with her own. They were strong but gentle and she didn't have the fight in her to break free from his grasp.

"The wards are down. Draco, now!" she heard a feminine voice cry out.

The next thing Hermione felt was the familiar pull of Apparition and the very short-lived feeling of relief.

* * *

**a/n**: This honestly started out in my head as a one-shot. But this story just wouldn't allow that. It told me there was more to be told and I, of course, must listen. A new chapter may not be posted for a while as I will be on vacation and without internet for a little over a week. I will be taking my laptop and will hopefully find a bit of time to write here and there. I hope you enjoy and please leave comments and reviews! I love hearing what people have to say about my writing, both the good and the bad.

**Disclaimer**: I don't intend to infringe on any copyrights. Obviously these characters belong to JK Rowling and I thank her for creating them, and the world they exist in, so wonderfully.


	2. Running Up That Hill

Hermione landed with a thud on the cold, hard floor of a new setting. Her head was spinning, both literally and figuratively, from what had happened in merely the last hour. She rolled onto her right side with a groan and used her legs in an attempt to scoot to the nearby wall. It took longer than she had anticipated, but eventually she had forced herself into a sitting position against the steel blue wall. Whilst taking in her surroundings she saw that the entirety of the living area was painted this same blue color, contrasted by the all-white furniture. The kitchen, open to the living area but separated by an island, was an herbal green—a bright, light color but also somewhat muted. She noticed that the room she was in also had touches of this color. It was completely unlike anything she would have imagined bearing the Malfoy name.

She tried to keep her mind focused on these things. It seemed to keep the pain somewhat at bay. But a constant stinging sensation in her left arm brought her out of this reverie and so she slowly and gingerly removed her dirty coat, allowing it to bunch up as it fell behind her back, and pulled up the sleeve of her jumper. The instant gasp coincided with the tightening of her chest and again Hermione began to cry. Silently she permitted the tears to fall, some to the floor and some to mix with the blood still oozing from the word carved into her forearm.

A groan from across the room put a stop to her crying and she quickly tried to wipe away any evidence of what she had been doing.

Another groan escaped the pale man lying on the floor. Hermione felt a jump in her chest when she realized that what she was hearing wasn't groans but, in fact, sobs from the youngest Malfoy. At this point, she was still unsure of a multitude of things. It was impossible to trust the man lying across from her—of that, she was certain. But there were still so many unanswered questions, such as why he had stopped his aunt's attack on her. Why had he brought her here? Why was he crying?

Her curious mind unsatisfied, she finally spoke. "Ma—," her voice cracked, "Malfoy, why…?"

She couldn't finish her question as his gray eyes shot up to meet hers, and for a moment confusion clouded his stare as though he had forgotten she was here. But in an instant it was replaced with a blank stare. All emotion had left him, leaving only the look of steadfast determination.

He stood up, his eyes never leaving her person. "Granger. We need to get you to a bed. You need to rest."

She could feel it. Her rebuttal was in the pit of her stomach like a stone and it rose up through her throat to her mouth. Hermione Granger was not going to take orders from Draco Malfoy. Although, she reconsidered, her eyes were stinging with sleeplessness and her body felt limp. But this was Draco Malfoy, known Death Eater and hater of mudbloods, she argued with herself. Though had he meant to kill her, he would have had plenty of opportunity by this point. Her body wanted her to yield to his wishes, yet her mind knew better. Eventually one would become the victor.

It wasn't long before her mind gave in, growing as weary as the rest of her.

"I… I don't think I can stand," she said, her voice barely above a whisper.

He hesitated, shifting nervously from one foot to the other. "Perhaps I could…" he trailed off.

"Yes. Yes, I think you could," she answered with a few quick nods.

It took five strides for him to reach her, she counted. She also noticed a dried substance on his shoes and found herself less surprised than she expected by the filth. Draco's arm slowly wound itself around her body and he tightened his hold when his left hand found its place under her arm. He turned her to their right, towards the kitchen, and after a few steps he stopped them in front of a door. She hadn't detected this door upon her initial visual inspection—though, granted, it wouldn't have done her much good if she had. Opening an unknown door in a Malfoy home would have been an invitation for trouble. But when he did finally manage to open the door (it was a bit difficult to do as he tried to keep her as steady as possible), the scene behind it filled Hermione with relief.

The room was absolutely, wonderfully normal. Simple, even. There wasn't a trace of Slytherin green or dungeon gray to be seen. The walls were a light brown, like the color of sand, with the rest of the furniture white like the living area. The bed linens were a muted turquoise and to its right was a French door that led to a small sitting area with a beautiful view of the ocean. Hermione felt like she had walked into a spa—or she would have, had it not been for the weakness in her bones and her dearest enemy keeping her vertical.

It took seven steps to get to the bed, where he carefully sat her down before lifting her feet onto the soft surface. She wasted no time in getting comfortable. It was a nice bed, something she had lacked for months.

"Wait," she started when Malfoy turned to exit, "Why? Why did you help me?"

She wasn't happy with the question she had asked. It didn't ask nearly enough to appease her because, being Hermione Granger, she needed answers to everything. At one time she had felt self-conscious about this trait—after all, it had been used as an insult against her for years—but she had grown comfortable with being a know-it-all. In a war, knowing was all important. Knowing, as it were, truly was half the battle. And right now she wanted to know everything/

"I have my reasons, Granger," he answered sharply.

His voice was so lifeless, so unlike the voice laced with arrogance that she had grown used to (and comfortable) with. It made her feel uneasy and, unexplainably, had sent a strange sensation through her chest. Perhaps it was fear, plain and simple. She _knew_ what Draco was like, or so she thought. But after all that had happened, she wasn't so sure. This change in his demeanor, accompanied by his earlier actions, wasn't predictable. It wasn't anything she had ever expected to happen. It had, somewhat, thrown a great deal of what she thought she knew into the rubbish bin.

"Which are?" she pressed on.

"Which are nothing you need to be concerned about," he retorted, his back still to her.

Quickly she sat up in the bed, instantly regretting the decision but refusing to let it show. "Nothing I need to be concerned about? Malfoy, do you realize everything that has happened in the last hour? This isn't just some game. This isn't a secret to be kept. This is my life and that is something I am quite concerned about!"

Hermione didn't know what she expected. She should have known better than to expect anything. Truthfully she wasn't even aware of what answers she was hoping for, but she was hoping for some answers, any answers. Any intelligence was better than pure ignorance (contrary to what was often said in the Muggle world, it was certainly not bliss) and she was searching for anything to ease that gnawing ache of curiosity in her gut.

No, Hermione didn't know what she expected. What she got was the figure of Draco Malfoy retreating from the room and shutting the door behind him, without so much as a single word muttered in response to her.

He didn't know what to tell her, mainly because he didn't have the answers himself. Nothing he was feeling or thinking could be put into words that could form a coherent sentence.

He walked over to the couch on the wall opposite the bedroom door and sat down, resting his head in his hands for a moment before running them through his hair. His emotions were running wild. He had done the right thing in saving Granger, he knew that. And somewhere deeply hidden inside of him he was proud of what he had done. Unfortunately that pride was masked by the thoughts of what other sorts of danger he may have placed her in by his actions. Less important was the thought of what danger he had put himself in. Oh, what he had done was beyond stupid. Most would even call his actions suicidal.

In a way, they were. There wasn't much that Draco lived for anymore, he had decided long ago. He hadn't really ever lived for himself, either. Everything in his life—every action, every goal, and, until recently, every thought—had been something expected of him. The man he had become was molded by a platoon of people. He scoffed. They weren't people. He wasn't sure what they were, but they weren't people. People had souls, or some idea of right and wrong, good and bad, guilt or innocence. Death Eaters were decidedly not people.

But how he had hoped his father would turn out to be different, to be more than just a mindless cog in the machine. He had witnessed the change in his mother—had there really ever been anything to change?, he sometimes wondered—and wished that Lucius would soon yield to his wife's wishes and quit following Voldemort into whatever hell they were creating. Wishing did nothing, however, and Draco was all too aware of that. It had already been too late for him, as well, as he had taken the Dark Mark over a year ago his self. He had done it for his family, he often told himself. He had done it to save his mother's life. And it would take a miracle to get out.

That miracle had arrived. He was going to seize it.

* * *

**a/n: **It took a bit longer than expected to get this chapter out, but I hope you enjoy it. Please feel free to leave any suggestions in a review (is the story going too slow?, would you like to see more interaction?, etc.). And I have also written a Dramione oneshot titled _As the World Falls Down_, so please go check it out!


	3. Out of This World

It was some time before Hermione's eyes opened, though she didn't remember closing them in the first place. A wave of panic hit her as she took in her unfamiliar surroundings. Soon her memories began to reappear and she realized she was in a Malfoy home with the man himself. Surprisingly, the thought relieved her more than anything else. Her eyes quickly adjusted to the minimal amount of light in the room. It was deep into the night but a bright moon allowed her some vision.

She sighed as she raised herself into a sitting position. Her body felt rested and the pains that had wrought her body a day ago had diminished to merely aching bones. The word carved into her arm, however, still stung regularly with her heartbeat. She would have to do some research on healing wounds such as that one—or scars, as it would be by the time any research was allowed to her. Her chest ached with the forming of a loud sob that never broke the surface. Tears just wouldn't flow anymore she discovered.

With some of her strength returned to her, Hermione flung her feet over the side of the bed and attempted to stand. Another millisecond, though, and she was back on the bed. She chuckled to herself. _A bit too eager there, Hermione,_ she thought. On her second attempt she remained on her feet and slowly moved herself towards the doors that led to the sitting area. When she opened the white French door, a breeze brushed itself against her skin. The smell of salt and air welcomed her and she found that a small smile had formed on her face.

As she stepped out, she discerned that this wasn't merely a sitting area, as she had initially thought, but a small covered porch. To her right were two rocking chairs, white with turquoise cushions that looked so soft and inviting she nearly ran to them. On her left was a porch swing that matched the rocking chairs. But the most beautiful thing was the view in front of her. After the three small steps that lead off of the porch was a pristine white beach and, beyond that, the ocean. She wasn't sure which ocean it was—she wasn't even sure which continent she was on—but she gasped at the beauty of the moonlight resting on its surface.

"Granger," he spoke, suddenly aware of her presence. "Sorry. It's, uh, the only place to sit and have a look at the water."

Her body stiffened at the sound of his voice. Her eyes searched the darkness for an instant before finding his dark figure standing at the corner of the porch.

"I'll leave if you want," he said, already making his way towards the door.

"No. It's alright. I—I can be alone with you here," she stuttered.

It was still difficult to speak to Malfoy despite what had happened and what he had done. Her mind and her gut were locked in a constant battle when it came to him and often they would switch sides themselves. Confusion was an understatement; this situation was absolutely disorienting.

When he made his way to sit down on the porch swing, she followed. He was slumped forward, his elbows resting on his knees. Only now, at this short distance, did she realize he was wearing Muggle clothing—a plain gray t-shirt and jeans. His feet were bare. She had to stop herself from laughing. Draco Malfoy in casual attire was such a _strange_ sight to see and she found herself feeling a bit more at ease next to him.

"Would you like to tal—,"

"No," he interrupted.

Eventually he sat up, resting his back against the swing, and for a few minutes they sat there, side by side, in silence. And it wasn't awkward. It didn't feel uncomfortable. They simply sat there, looking out at the dancing waves that would disappear only to reappear soon after. It was almost calming.

She almost regretted breaking the silence.

Bringing her hand down to rest lightly on his forearm, she started, "What you did, Mal—Draco, you know, you saved me. My life. And you didn't have to and I don't know why you did, but thank you."

He didn't reply, but she noticed a small nod of his head.

And Draco noticed that she didn't move her hand.

For the second time in just a few hours, Hermione woke up to an unfamiliar scene. This time she knew exactly where she was. What she didn't know was how she had ended up snuggled in blankets, asleep on the porch swing. She let the thought fade as she became aware of the view. The sky was blue with a hint of orange on the horizon; the same image reflected in the water below. A few clouds littered the view. The bright morning sun shone into the porch and, momentarily forgetting the situation she was in, a feeling of cheer overtook her.

She startled when the door beside her opened. The fright, though, was simply caused by the sound of the door and not the person coming through it. Hermione's face scrunched in confusion at that realization, but she decided that it was a thought best saved for another time.

"I brought you some coffee, if you want it."

"Coffee?" she asked.

"I'm not really a tea kind of guy," he replied, a smirk lighting up his eyes but failing to appear on his face.

"You know, I think coffee suits you. Yeah, you seem like a coffee guy."

She glanced over at him, a smile on her face, to find his eyes already focused on her. Her head told her that she shouldn't be smiling at him. Her head also told her that she should be running, getting as far away from him as she could. She needed to find Harry and Ron and help them in their efforts to defeat Voldemort—whatever efforts those were right now. But then something like a punch to the gut hit her. She wasn't even sure if Harry and Ron were still alive. They had still been in the dungeons when Malfoy had apparated them from the grounds.

"Draco," she said, "I have a question."

A look of frustration overwhelmed his face. "I won't tell you why—."

"No, not about that. Not that I've quit wondering. It's just… Harry and Ron."

"Oh."

"Do you know, well, anything about them?"

"Barring any complications, my mother will have released them and allowed them to escape to wherever."

"Oh."

He noted the worry still in her eyes. "I'm sure there weren't any complications. Potter and Weasley are probably safe and sound, trying to figure out how to find you as we speak."

That was something she hadn't quite considered. Would Harry and Ron be looking for her? While the obvious answer was yes, she wasn't so sure. They were in the middle of a war and sometimes people disappeared. No matter how badly you wanted to find them, there wasn't the opportunity. There were more important things to do than find Hermione Granger.

"I hope they're not," she muttered.

"What?"

"There are other things to do, more important things. They shouldn't be wasting time trying to find me."

"That's absurd," Draco protested. "They're your friends."

"They are also leaders in a war. There are things that they must do."

"And if they aren't looking for you? If they are off trying to accomplish these other important tasks? What will you do then?" he questioned.

"I… I'm not sure. I suppose I would have to find them, but that would be next to impossible. But there are other things I could do."

"But first you're going to rest," he asserted.

"First?" she asked. "As in, you plan to let me go?"

"Not quite," he replied. "Though, in a way, yes. Eventually we will go."

"We?"

"There are some things I am willing to divulge, Granger. I know about the Horcruxes."

Her eyes went wide. "But… how?"

He laughed. "You wouldn't believe me if I told you."

The look on her face told him she didn't care if his answer was believable or not. And, for the tiniest of moments, so tiny that it barely registered in his mind, the angry and determined look on her face made him smile.

"Severus Snape."

"Oh. Well of course one of the highest ranking Death Eaters would know!"

"It's not how he knew, Granger, or why. It's what he did with the information that is truly unbelievable."

They sat in silence for a few moments before her curiosity got the better of her. "Aren't you going to tell me what he did with the information?"

He laughed, this time a true and deep laugh that he could feel in his stomach. Hermione realized that she was the cause of that laugh, and she playfully slapped his shoulder before her own laughter bubbled to the surface. For a few short minutes the two laughed together. But as her laughter died down, Hermione realized who she was sitting next to. How was this happening? She shouldn't have been sitting there, enjoying herself with Draco Malfoy. Her head told her that this was a bad idea, that he would eventually turn on her. There was nothing good about him, it told her. And yet every other thing—her intuition, her gut, right down to her bones—told her to allow this. To smile and laugh and forget about everything happening in a world so far away from them. And it was astonishingly easy to do.

Especially once the new, carefree Hermione Granger admitted to herself that the man sitting next to her wasn't exactly ugly.

* * *

**a/n: **First, I would like to thank everyone who has reviewed, favorited, or followed this story. It means the world to me. I'll admit I'm usually one who works off of reviews—the more I have the faster and more I write. But writing this story is giving me such joy! The reviews are a wonderful bonus. As I always say, I love hearing your reviews no matter if they are good or bad. I truly want to hear your opinions on how the story is going. I've started back at university, so chapters might be slow coming out (like this one). Hope everyone is having a good week!


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